Trickster's folly
by Shadedrow
Summary: Someone's been begging Lupa hawke to tell them a story, and she has one in mind. one shot within strength of the wolf.


Okay, so this little plotbunny jumped me. If your reading strength of the wolf and have gotten past chapter 4, then I hope you can guess who they are. review with guesses, cookies to people who guessed right.

* * *

"Oh, so you want to hear a story? Why ask me? My little dalish friend likely has as many as you could want, and they are much older and better told. You want one of my stories? The dwarf with the crossbow tells my stories better than I do, and they're usually more or less true. You still want a story from me? Very well, then, perhaps I do have one I could tell that they couldn't. It's not precisely about me, not one of the legends that are clamored for. But if you must have a story from my lips tonight, then here is the one I will tell."

* * *

He was the captain of a small ship, sometimes a smuggler, sometimes an outright pirate. More frequently he served as a procurer of rare items or antiquities on commission, usually by virtue of contacts with people willing to liberate them from who the less open minded would deem rightful owners. On the particular occasion that concerns us now, he had acquired a nice collection of old Tevinter tomes of obscure arcane lore, pristine condition, give or take a few incidental blood stains. He always claimed he had the trickster's own luck in finding things like that, and even more in finding the one person who would pay him a small fortune for the item in question.

The buyer for these was a rich Tevinter magister who claimed these were just what he needed to advance his research. The captain never asked what precisely the mage was researching, likely because he knew he did not want to know. He was very good at ignoring things he didn't like, especially if there was the clink of gold and the swish of wine to distract him. And anyways, the Magister offered a large chest of gold and a relic of an heirloom staff that the captain already had a buyer lined up for. Gold, opportunities, and the goodwill of scarily powerful people, what more could he ask for? If the contracts he was pursuing panned out, he could practically replace the sails of Trickster's Folly with orlesian silk.

The magister invited him to his estate near Asarie, to deliver the books, collect his payment, and enjoy a bit of Tevinter hospitality as a bonus for finding the entire set. The captain agreed with happy thoughts of free wine and food, and left his precious ship anchored at the dock with his trusted first mate and assorted crew to watch it. He stood at the brassy gates of the large estate with a few trusted crewmates, and was escorted in with much pomp and ceremony. The magister himself met the captain at the courtyard, and invited him in to the feast.

There was music and dancing, meat and pastries and all that should be at a fine feast, with expensive wine flowing like water. The conversations scintillated and sparkled, swirling around the captain almost like he belonged amongst the gilded nobles and silk clad ladies. But he drank his wine and kept himself to himself, even as he smiled at them and laughed at their jokes, for he could sense the shadows and fresh blood under the gilt, and remained cautious. When the music slowed and the food faltered, he asked the magister of his payment. The magister smiled, running his hands over the bright lettered spines of the tomes, and answered "soon".

"I must leave with the tide tomorrow, for my ship calls me, and she is more my love than any of the painted ladies you offer," The captain responded, and pulled back from the table. "I would have my payment, or I will find new buyers for the books you caress."

The magister laughed, and rose as well. "You will have your payment, good captain, but my hospitality is not complete until you have seen my stormdancer perform. Stay for her dance, at least, and drink the best of my wine, and you will have your payment by morning."

The room he was led to was empty of others, smooth floored except for the divan where a bottle of wine sat breathing. The captain sat, and considered the wine he was offered, but did not drink. The magister sat across from him, and clapped. Without a sound, two slaves, one bearing a lute, the other a drum, entered and bowed before taking places to either side of the door. The drummer started a low, steady beat, and another strode through the door, as if on cue. She was tiny, with an almost doll like air of fragility, until she moved. She moved like a jungle cat, like a feral creature not yet resigned to captivity, and her wild gold eyes regarded the captain with a hunting creature's interest before she bowed gracefully to the magister, dark red hair falling over her face in long waves, delicate swirled metal staff held behind her.

"Isn't she pretty?" the magister asked, smiling at the captain obvious interest. "The prize of my collection. One of the best stormdancer's I've seen, and healer trained as well. I believe you will enjoy this. I always do."

"Perhaps." The captain smiled as well, and returned his gaze to the dancer. Her long ears were pierced by lines of golden hoops that gleamed in the candle light as she swayed, as did the polished metal of the collar she wore with as much concern as noble lady might wear a jewel gorget. The black silk she wore around her chest and waist clung to her in the Tevinter heat, showing every sinuous flex of wiry muscles on her dancer's build. She bowed again as the music started, then leaped, lightning arcing across her staff. A wind blew out of nowhere, and suddenly the only light in the room was the sparks running along her staff as she spun and lashed out, flaring, silhouetting, flashing into flame for a brief second before dying back.

The captain watched her as if hypnotized, and drank the wine without a thought, lost in the play of light and shadows. The drumbeats quickened, as the bells on her ankles chimed their own tune, and his heart beat sped with them. Suddenly, with one last leap, she knelt before him in a flash of frost and lightning, the music and light ceasing. And still his heart sped, his muscles beginning to seize. The magister laughed as the captain scented the poison hidden in the wine, the poison the dancer's beauty had distracted him from. "And here is your payment, good captain, as promised." The magister declared, and stepped through the door. "Clean up this mess, my pretty pet, and present yourself to my room after you are bathed. I have studies to resume."

When the door clanged shut, the captain shuddered, trying to force his limbs back under his control. He grabbed for the dancer in an unguarded moment, laying a blade across her neck. "Heal me, or I will kill you," he gasped, and she flinched back. He pressed harder, drawing blood, and she whimpered, then laid a hand glowing bluish white on his chest. He felt the poison recede, and the strength return to him, and grabbed her collar. "Where are the others who came with me?"

She whimpered, but led him to his crew. They walked through the halls, and carefully collected the staff and gold he had been promised, and all of the tomes they could find. Then they stole into the night, still leading the frightened dancer. She was thrown onto his deck when they reached the ship, and scrambled back from him. "Enough of that," he growled. "Call the wind, as you did in that room." She glared at him, reaching for her staff. He leaned forward, curling his fingers around her collar. "Call the wind, and I'll remove this," he offered, watching the confused light in her eyes. She walked to the bow, and spun, lightning crackling in the clouds. Again, she spun, before she raised her arms, and the sails filled, pulling them out of the harbor. He spent the next day filing the metal collar from her neck, throwing it into the sea.

She wears a spare shirt of his over her silks, and stands at the prow, caressing the wood. He stands behind her, and runs his hand over where hers has passed. "I'm glad I stole you. It's useful having you around, mage."

"Danthera." She offers, and he only raises an eyebrow. "My name is not mage," she adds, and pulls a faded flower from her hair. "Acidanthera," she names it before letting the wind carry it into the sea. She points to herself. "Danthera," she repeats.

He offers her his hand, and smiles. "Captain Tiercel Hawke. Welcome to Trickster's Folly."

She rubs the black pawprint that covers her palm, then smiles back, taking his hand.


End file.
